Dear Journal
by Kupo114
Summary: A reporter begins his research on a local musical artist with a cult following, not knowing that the stories she told would change his life forever.Based off Changeling: The Dreaming by White Wolf Studios.


Dear Journal,

I think I've lost my job. My editor-in-chief told me I had three more days to turn in my article on this singer, Daisy D'Amico. I thought this would be easy, just go to one of her shows in that run-down shit house the locals there call a 'café'. Coffee was decent enough. Just when I thought I couldn't stand the smell of cheap cigarettes anymore, she finally waltzed in . . . then everything changed.

She had an air about her, or maybe a halo, like a damned angel or something. She didn't look it though, she stalked in with those big, black, platform boots those kids like to wear, black trench coat dragging along behind her. I'd seen her kind before. I've interviewed hundreds of young punks just like her, and every single one of them had something to say. Something we just needed to hear so it could change our lives forever. Give me a break. Those punk kids haven't barely started there lives and they think they know it all. You know where they all are now? Either dead from a drug overdose or living with there parents. Friggin deadbeats. This one though . . . this one was different though, even though she dressed like them.

She took her coat off and threw it over the back of her chair on the 'stage' like she owned the place. Judging by the crowd, she did. She opened up the hard case she carried her guitar in, the case and its owner looked like they had been propped up on a street corner more than once. So she's been around the block a few times, like I should give her a medal? Congratulations, you survived the real world, here's a check for a million dollars, good luck with the next forty years? She had a worldly look to her though, she kind of demanded respect from the audience without making a sound. Then she started playing.

I had never heard anything like it before. And those songs she sang! Strange, haunting, and even macabre tales. That girl's got some issues, but there was something about what she was wailing about. Next thing I know, its 2:30 in the morning, I'm out of cigarettes, and I'm sharing a table with a goth girl with horns poking through her hair! I don't know what she had rolled up in that paper, but just the smoke seemed to the be getting to me, since I rubbed my eyes and the sad girl seemed to lose her horns. Daisy only played for a few minutes more before she packed up her guitar and strolled out the door as suddenly as she arrived. I left soon after, but when I went home that night, I couldn't sleep. Her words, the ones from her songs, kept playing over and over in my head. It was strange. I had only heard the songs that one time, yet the words were crystal clear in my head. Her words sang of a strange land, one of magic and wonder and sometimes . . . horror. I had to see her again. I had to hear more of her stories. The next day, I pulled some strings with the entertainment editor and had her set up an interview with Daisy D'Amico at my place, where we could talk in private. When she got there . . . some stuff happened. I thought it best to write my article anyway, but I don't think I can turn this in to the Editor . . . I'm finished at the ArtVoice . . .

Angel in a Demon's Dress

By: Rick Gellar

Recently, I had a chance to sit down with local up-and-comer, Daisy D'Amico, a classical trained guitarist and singer who is playing her first headlining gig at the Niagara University Quad on Saturday. If you haven't ever heard of Daisy D'Amico, whose beautiful and haunting vocals, some say are reminiscent of a wounded angel, you're not alone, despite the reputation as an entertainer she has earned with the Spot Coffee crowd in South Buffalo. In fact, Daisy herself has said that she isn't after fame and fortune in creating her music, so she doesn't mind being unrecognized as an artist living in a one bedroom apartment in Niagara Falls. It was because of the coziness of her abode that she asked to meet at my apartment for our interview.

Before she arrived, I had to set the scene; I threw some Faith and Disease into my stereo, soft music and vocals fill the candlelit room. At this point, I was slightly worried that she may get the wrong idea with the candlelit room and soft music, but I decided to light a stick of vanilla incense anyway, as I heard it was favorite scent. I checked my watch. Already 10 minutes late. It was snowing outside so I thought I would put on a pot of coffee, but as I turned toward the kitchen, I heard a knock at the door. I shouted for her to enter as I continued to the kitchen. I heard the door open and close as I began to fill my coffee pot with water, followed by a 'Hello?' I poked my head around the corner and was greeted by the sight of a tall, long limbed, young woman of clear Egyptian decent removing a long black duster. She casually draped it over a chair in my living area and stood with her hands in her pockets, looking surprisingly comfortable in these strange surroundings. She brushed some snow off her black hair that hung in waves past her shoulders, but still framed her face, which in itself, possessed a near ethereal beauty. I called to her that I would be out in a moment and to take a seat wherever she would like. I took her silence as an acknowledgement. A few moments later, I emerged from the kitchen and shook her hand when she stood and offered it. I waved for her to retake her seat in my red armchair as I sat across the coffee table on my matching sofa.

Rick GellarHow are you this evening? My name is Rick Gellar; I am an entertainment reporter for the ArtVoice. I promise this won't take much of your time . . .

Daisy D'Amico: _Oh, not at all, take your time. Nice to meet you, Rich._

RG: Actually, it's Rick.

DD: _Oh, I'm very sorry . . . guess I'm just nervous._

RG: Well, I promise it's nothing to be nervous about; I'm just going to ask you a few questions, and if you don't feel like answering you don't have to, ok?

DD: _OK, shoot._

RG: What is your passion? Your favorite thing to do in your free time?

DD: _ without hesitation My music is my passion. Teh, this sounds a bit corny but, if I can touch at least one person's soul with my stories, all the years of pouring my heart into my music has been worth it._

RG: Tell me about your music; where do you get your inspiration?

DD: _ thinks for a moment I'm not really sure, honestly. Some of them come from dreams, other just . . . come to me._

RG: Your dreams?

DD: _Next question, please._

RG: Ok. What's something you really hate; something you would never ever do?

DD: _What kind of a question is that? Well, I guess I should be a good sport. Something I really hate . . . can we come back to this question?_

RG: No problem . . . let's see . . . this may be too candid a subject, but I believe it will help people to better understand you, and get in touch with the message you are trying to give them-

DD: _It's not a message I'm trying to send out or anything like that, I just have stories that need to be told._

RG: I apologize. Um, where was I? Oh, yes, tell me one of your biggest regrets, in regards to your personal of professional history?

DD: _ leans back in chair, seemingly deep in thought Now that's a loaded question. laughs You want an honest answer?_

RG: Of course.

DD: _ leans forward toward me Ok . . . probably the biggest regret I've ever had would be to let my brother go the way he did. leans back, takes a brief pause I was the one that got Ian into all the trouble in the first place, but I wasn't around enough to pull him back out. That's the biggest regret I've ever had, pauses and I don't think that will ever change._

RG: I appreciate you answering, but I was also hoping you could tell me of your biggest hopes and fears.

DD: _Hmm . . . my biggest hope would be to be able to share my stories with the world, or at least with anybody who's interested._

RG: . . . and your biggest fears?

DD: _ smirk What fears?_

RG: laugh Ok then . . . I wanted to ask a little more about your songs . . .

DD_: Go ahead; I'll answer what I can._

RG: I notice you call your songs 'stories.' Why is that?

DD: _Well, that's what they are. I don't dream up wishy-washy drivel about 'getting jiggy with it', I write stories. I write about things I've done, the things I've seen._

RG: What about your one about slaying the elder dragon to win the love of the Sidhe man you were a bard for?

DD: _Hey, pretty sharp . . . I thought I saw you at my show the other night, you didn't look like one of my regulars . . . but what about it?_

RG: Well, obviously that didn't really happen, so you had to have come up with it somewhere.

DD: _leans in close with a smirk Prove it didn't. _

RG: laughs So how did you come into service of that Sidhe?

DD: _ leans back into chair Oh, I can't tell you that, but I can tell you about this one time when I was with this Satyr, Rockwell- but, oh, that wouldn't be appropriate . . . are you tired?_

RG: No, why do you ask?

DD: _Well, you're rubbing your eyes an awful lot. You got contacts?_

RG: Oh, no, I just thought I saw something.

DD: _What'd you see?_

RG: Well, for a second there, I could have sworn your hair was braided . . . and longer.

DD: _And what's so wrong about that?_

RG: It must just be the incense . . . I should put it out.

DD: _ puts her hand on my arm There's nothing wrong with the incense. Try to see me with braids again._

RG: What?

DD_: Just try to see me with braids again._

long pause 

DD: _What's wrong?_

RG: You shouldn't have braids like that . . . or robes.

DD: _But I do, whether you choose to see them or not. Do you have anything to drink?_

RG:Um, yeah, I think I have some wine. Merlot.

DD:_ That will do nicely. Now, let me tell you a story . . ._"

And that's where I decided to stop writing. No one's gonna believe this if I turn it in the way it is. I tried to change it . . . but whenever I try to delete anything from the story, I feel a piece of me inside begin to weep. Listen to me, I sound like one of those damn tree huggers from the art festival.

Daisy stayed at my house until the sun rose that morning, telling me story after story of her imaginary exploits that seemed to have a ring of truth to them that I couldn't explain, and I drank them in along with my wine. She told me more of the Sidhe lord, Aramil, whom she had fallen in love with, and how his pointed ears used to turn red when he was embarrassed. She regaled me with tales about her adventures in this place that is neither here nor away from here, a place she said I know I in my heart; and in my heart, I knew her to be telling the truth.


End file.
